Cornelia’s heart fluttered as she walked out of the dressing room. Her mother was on one side of her, and Lady Alba on the other. They escorted her directly to the grand ballroom. Cornelia couldn’t have changed her mind if she wanted to, not with these two matrons matching her every step.
The page arrived ahead of them, and upon his announcement of the bride, music swelled from somewhere in the ballroom. Cornelia swallowed against the dryness of her throat as she reached the entrance.
More than a hundred pairs of eyes turned toward her. The room was resplendent in candle light, which wasn’t needed, because the glow of the setting sun coming through the tall windows had turned the room into a fiery glow. Women added to the glow with their glittering dresses of gold, silver, and blue. The men were equally glorious in tailored suits of dark colors and moon-white shirts beneath.
Cornelia’s father stepped forward, his chin lifted in pride, shoulders erect, back straight. He held out his arm, and she gratefully clasped onto it. The guests parted, and then Cornelia saw him. Lord Moss. The man who would be her husband. The man she’d already deceived and was about to deeply betray.
Her breath felt shallow and her feet heavy. But she could not look away from the man standing on the dais waiting for her. His long sable-colored jacket cut away from his torso, emphasizing his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Beneath the jacket, he wore a white linen shirt and sable-colored trousers. His black boots nearly reached his knees, and their high polish gleamed along with everything else in the room.
But it was his eyes she could not look away from. Despite her veil, she felt his gaze penetrating to her very mind. His green-gold eyes were the only thing he had in common with his mother’s looks. And his hair was a thick wave of deep brown, reminding her of the shadowed trunks of the deep forest on a summer day. His jaw was set firm, and she could just make out the barest stubble.
She had thought it impossible for her pulse to pound any harder, but at the quirk of his lips as she approached, her pulse rocketed. Because she was thinking of the wedding night and how it might be to kiss her new husband. And what might happen when he discovered her deceit. Surely she couldn’t hide the truth forever.
That beautiful mouth of his would turn cruel. His green eyes would narrow to slits. Would he strike her? Would he order her out of his sight, to be locked up in the dungeon until her date of execution could be set?
Cornelia wanted to turn, to run back through the parting of the guests, until she was outside the castle. Perhaps she could man the skiff herself and return to the mainland. She’d live out her days as an outcast, that she knew, but perhaps it meant she would live.
But her legs kept moving forward, her feet walking, her heart beating, her words staying silent. Phrases and words bombarded her mind as the thoughts of the men competed inside her mind. Some thoughts were dull, some tired, some worried, others leering, about her or about other women. Other thoughts were more sinister. One planning a rendezvous with someone named Musk. The thought felt very dark, but Cornelia didn’t have time to search out the man in the crowd. She tried to block all the competing thought streams and focus on what was going through Lord Moss’s mind. So far, she’d heard nothing. Not upon their first meeting and not now.
Once they reached the dais, her father released her arm, and for a moment, it was like being stripped of all clothing and adornment. She’d have to ascend the five steps by herself. She’d have to stand across from Lord Moss and make her vows in front of one hundred witnesses.
Her father murmured something, but Cornelia had no idea what he’d said. It was time to do this. She grasped the sides of her gown and put one foot on the first step. Then another. And another.
Before she took the final step, Lord Moss held out his hand. Gloved, of course.
She swallowed down the surfacing panic and placed her hand in his. Warm and strong. Steady. And he did not let go as she stepped onto the dais and faced him.
“Hello,” he said in a quiet voice that she could just hear over the rustle and murmuring of the wedding guests.
She opened her mouth to return the greeting, but her voice stuck. She frantically tried to read his thoughts, anything, a single phrase, a lone impression, yet there was nothing. She could see in his green-gold eyes that he knew. He knew she was not Felicia. But he was going to marry her anyway.
Despite the wedding veil doing its job of concealing the brown eyes of the woman standing across from him, Moss could see the shift in her gaze. Although he couldn’t read her mind, it was possible she could read his. But he didn’t think so. How he knew this, he couldn’t explain.
“What is your name?” he asked, keeping his voice quiet.
Her lips parted, then closed. She had pretty lips. Full and pert. The lips of the woman in the portrait were thinner.
“Please, give your attention to our esteemed Lord Moss,” the page said, commanding the attention of the guests so that even the barest whisper went silent.
The page continued, but Moss wasn’t listening. “Who are you?” he tried again, quiet enough that only she could hear.
“The daughter of Sir Crest and Lady China,” she said.
Moss stared, willing the veil to disintegrate beneath his gaze, but it remained firmly in place. Then he realized the page had stopped talking and had turned toward the dais expectantly. In fact, the entire room full of guests was watching him in silence.
Moss had a decision to make. This very instant. But the questions tumbled through his mind, urgent and unanswered. What had happened to Felicia, the sister he’d been betrothed to for a year? And how in the history of the Isle did Crest Rose think that he could get away with marrying off a different daughter?
The pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. What if Crest was behind the assassination attempts? Perhaps he’d switched out his eldest daughter for this younger one—this mind reader—so that she could be the perfect spy.
The plan was rather brilliant, if Moss were to admit to it.
He had two choices. Expose the trembling woman in front of him for the fraud that she was. Or. Marry her and thwart their plan, bring down Crest and his loyal followers. Let it be a warning to all who dared infiltrate the Isle. And by weeding out any dissenters or followers of Crest, Moss would then strengthen his power.
“Miss Rose,” he said in a strong, clear voice, still holding the woman’s hand in his. “With the authority that I hold, I vow to take you as my wife.”
Her fingers tightened on his ever so slightly, and he thought he heard her exhale.
“Lord Moss,” she said, her voice not as timid as he expected it to be. “Under your authority, I vow to take you as my husband.”
Two simple vows spoken, and it was done.
Except for their signatures on the marriage contract.
Her father walked up the stairs and joined them on the dais. With a bowed head, he offered the contract first to his daughter.
The woman took it in hand, and Moss kept his gaze on the quill as she penned her name. Her writing was small and curvy and not entirely legible at first glance. But Felicia was not the name she’d written, of that he was certain.
Next, Moss signed his name to the contract, and he sensed his new wife was holding her breath as he did so. It was going to be inconvenient that he couldn’t read his wife’s mind, so he’d have to pay even closer attention.
As he handed the contract to Bourbon, the guests cheered.
Moss smiled indulgently at his guests, then turned to the woman he’d just married. He did not lift her veil and place a kiss on those dusky lips of hers. Instead, he took her hand and pressed his lips to the top of her hand.
Her trembling had subsided, but it was still evident.
He lifted their hands together, and the guests cheered again. Then, Moss led his new bride off the dais, where they began to accept the congratulations of their guests, one by one. As the men and women approached, Moss clearly heard the thoughts of the women, and he shouldn’t have been t
oo surprised to learn that not everyone truly wished his new wife well.
Jealousy was something he’d dealt with his whole life, but now that he knew his wife was not the one he’d been betrothed to, he wondered why he hadn’t suspected a woman before. Women could be just as deceitful as men, and perhaps he’d been naïve in not considering them.
As Moss accepted congratulations, along with a single glass of wine, he kept Crest in his line of sight. And his wife. Moss was finding that one could never be too careful, and it appeared that the entire Rose family was involved.
The banquet tables had been set up and platters of food brought in. An unending stream of marinated meat, poached fruit, steamed vegetables, delicate desserts, and of course unlimited wine. But Moss stuck to one glass. He could not let his guard down. Not ever.
Moss escorted his new bride to their place at the head of the main banquet table. She ate sparingly, never lifting her veil, and he wondered how long she’d wear the veil. All night? Until tomorrow? Surely she didn’t think she could stay hidden from him forever?
The banquet continued, with the guests eating, drinking, and offering toasts, and all the while Moss watched the men and listened to the women. Their thoughts were inane, full of speculation, jealousy, and some of boredom. Nothing about a plot against him or the castle. And all the while, his wife’s thoughts stayed absolutely silent.
An hour passed, then two, and during the third hour, when Moss couldn’t stand one more minute, he stood. A hush rippled across the tables as people noticed him. “Thank you all for attending this joyous occasion,” Moss said. “I hope you will continue to enjoy yourselves.”
Glasses were raised, and Moss took a sip of his water.
He turned to his veiled bride and held out his hand. “Shall we?”
Her hesitation might be minute, but he’d seen it. Soon, she placed her gloved hand in his and stood. As they walked out of the banquet room, multiple guests, including his mother and the bride’s parents, bade them farewell and good wishes.
The thoughts of the female guests intensified and grew more bold, mixing in marriage-bed predictions and guesses on whether the bride would conceive that very night.
Moss kept his posture erect, his face expressionless. A skill he’d perfected over the years so that people would never know when he could hear their thoughts.
Stepping out of the banquet was a relief. Not only to escape the stifling air and cacophony of constant noise, but because he needed to discover the truth about the woman he’d just married.
Lord Moss strode at a brisk pace, but the last thing Cornelia dared ask him to do was slow down. She had no doubt that he was fuming, and he was about to get her alone somewhere to berate her, or worse. Would he give her a chance to explain before he accused her of treason?
His grip was quite tight on her upper arm, and it had likely been seen as a gesture of affection and possession by the wedding guests. But Cornelia knew better. His fingers were like fire, and even through the silk of her wedding gown, she felt like she’d been branded.
Lord Moss did not lead her up the grand staircase like she’d expected him to, where she supposed his bedchamber suites were. No, he led her down a long corridor that seemed to grow damper by the moment. The lighting was scant too, the oil lamps few and far between, and an involuntary shiver ran through her.
But Lord Moss seemed oblivious to her quickened breathing and shivering limbs. She probably should have been warned when she’d first realized she couldn’t read his thoughts. It wasn’t completely unusual to come up against a small barrier when meeting a man for the first time. Sometimes it took careful concentration and focus to break into the man’s mind. And reading another person’s thoughts was harder when she was upset about something.
Her emotions had certainly been all over today. But she’d spent nearly three hours trying to break into the mind of Lord Moss, and nothing. It also didn’t help that he intimidated her in every possible way. From his height, to the breadth of his shoulders, to his strong and capable hands, to what he’d said to her just before they’d spoken their vows of marriage. What’s your name? he asked.
He knew she was not Felicia.
Lord Moss came to a heavy wood door at the end of whichever corridor they’d now turned into. Without releasing her arm, he lifted the latch and tugged it open. The door opened with a groan as if it hadn’t been used in years.
Cool, damp, musty air rushed to meet them, and they stepped into a sort of garden. Lord Moss finally slowed his stride as he steered her along a winding path. They passed trees and high bushes, flowering plants, and prickly plants. The sun had long since set, and there were no outdoor lamps or torches, so the only light was the half-moon above.
Again, she wanted to question her new husband, but her heart was now racing with fear. Would he do away with her on his own? Bury her in the rich soil beneath one of these overhanging trees? Cornelia concentrated as hard as she could, hoping to read his thoughts. His intentions. Yet what good would it do her? She couldn’t escape a man who had more strength in his one hand than she had in her entire body.
She was so focused on her own self-pity that when Lord Moss stopped in front of a small building, she was startled she hadn’t seen the building until now.
With his free hand, he unlatched the door and drew her into the dark building.
“Don’t move,” Lord Moss said. The first words he’d spoken directly to her since their marriage vows.
He released her arm, and blood rushed through her limbs, fiery and tingly. She folded her arms, if only to keep herself in one place and draw a bit of warmth. She heard a soft scrape, then smelled sulfur. Lord Moss had lit a lamp, and the feeble light flickered to reveal a room about the size of her bedroom back home. He crossed to the door they’d come through and locked it.
Her pulse stuttered.
When Lord Moss turned around, he didn’t look at her, but moved about the small room, lighting more oil lamps. As the shadows retreated, then disappeared, Cornelia realized the room was cozy and quite lovely. Wall hangings of garden scenes covered the walls. The jewel-colored rugs were thick and soft, and two chaise lounges faced each other before a stone hearth.
A table sat off to one side, and it looked as if a game of chess was currently underway. Next to the chess board was a large basket covered with a linen cloth. One wall teemed with bookcases, and another table was covered in open books and sheaves of paper.
Still, Lord Moss hadn’t looked at her. He moved to the hearth and knelt before it, where he lit kindling, then started a fire.
Cornelia swallowed. Where were they? And why had Lord Moss brought her here? “What is this place?” she ventured to ask, her voice trembling.
He didn’t answer at first; he merely straightened, keeping his gaze on the young flames. Finally, he said, “It’s my work room. Where I design the gardens and research cross-bred plants.”
Cornelia waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t. She looked to the table of books and papers. After another moment of silence, she took a step toward the table, then another when Lord Moss still didn’t turn around. When she reached the table, she didn’t touch anything, but gazed down at an elaborate diagram of a rose garden. They hadn’t passed a rose garden on the way to this building, so maybe it was somewhere else on the grounds.
A shuffle sound from Lord Moss’s direction told her that he’d turned to look at her. Slowly, she lifted her chin and met his green eyes. In the warm glow of the multiple oil lamps, his eyes seemed dark. And penetrating.
Heat stole along her chest, moving to her neck.
“Take off the veil,” he said.
Of course he’d ask that, but the words caused her to flinch anyway. She raised her hands, and she was quite sure he could see them trembling from his place by the hearth. Slowly, she lifted the veil from her face.
She kept her gaze lowered even as she felt his on hers. Then she pulled out the pins that held the headpiece in place and slipped th
e entire thing off.
Lord Moss walked toward her, and she hardly dared to breathe. When he stopped in front of her, he didn’t say anything for a moment, but then he touched her chin and lifted her face.
She had to look at him then. Instead of anger or disgust in his gaze, she saw intense curiosity. The pressure of his fingers on her chin made the heat in her chest multiply. Surely she was blushing like a simpering girl now.
“Tell me your name,” he said, his tone authoritative, yet more gentle than she deserved.
She swallowed against the dryness of her throat. “Cornelia.”
His green-gold eyes moved over her face, and this close, she caught his scent of earth and spice. “Cornelia,” he said in a low voice. “You are the younger sister.”
It wasn’t a question, but a statement. “Yes,” she whispered. “My sister Felicia ... She eloped with her lover last night ... And my father ...”
Lord Moss released her chin, but he didn’t move back, didn’t shift his gaze, as he waited for her to continue.
“My father ... and my mother ... wanted to honor the betrothal contract,” she said, her voice faint. “So they sent me in place of my sister.”
It couldn’t really be that simple, Moss knew. One sister to replace another sister? Why not just send him a letter explaining the errant Felicia. Instead the family had been deceitful, so of course their intentions had to be more than honoring a marriage alliance.
Yet he only sensed truth coming from this woman’s lips. No, he could not read her thoughts, no matter how much he concentrated. Was she some sort of witch, then? A seductress? Skilled in keeping her thoughts hidden and wooing the hearts of men? Because she was beautiful. Not in the extravagant way of the women of elite society, but in a way that intrigued him and made him want believe in what she’d told him.
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